My curls defined me; even my personality was curly, bouncy, springy, and playfully twisted.

Sometimes, but if you do it enough, it's harder to trip your gag reflex, which comes in very handy, if you know what I mean."

I did know what she meant, but somehow juxtaposing it with vomiting made the whole thing highly unappealing.

What is wrong with you? ARe you the only guy in the universe who doesn't like a blow job?

Know what you get when you rearrange the letters in Nate Wetherill? HATE WILL ENTER.

Archer pressed a preset button on my car radio. An old Britney Spears song blared, and I sung along to every word, bopping in my seat. Archer just looked at me.

"Oh, come on!" I said. "Who doesn't sing along to Britney?

I realized my hands were in my pockets. He couldn't hold one even if he wanted to. Not unless he actively dug it out, which would be weird. He probably thought I was sending him a specific message not to hold my hand.

I took my hands out of my pockets.

The problem is I like having my hands in my pockets. It's my natural position. They felt unwieldy hanging by my sides, as if I was walking like a Neanderthal.

Why was I so bad at this?